Song of Hope
by Buckbeak's Revenge
Summary: ATTENTION: THIS FIC HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED.
1. The Flourishing City

**Chapter One: The Flourishing City**

For Stenden, there was only Jidoor.

If it had its blemishes, he wouldn't have known – his only real taste of natural beauty was South Figaro, marred by war and overpraised by memory. But the grass grew green in Jidoor, the flowers full and bright, the pines stately. Even the sky seemed clearer. That grasp at a memory he'd never fully had was reason enough for him never to leave.

The trouble was that nobody else was particularly willing either.

Lara entered his one-room section, the harried lines on her ruddy face even more evident than usual.

"That bastard, Hanzer, raised my rent," she muttered, barely looking at him. "Probably wants more ugly artwork from the auctions. Bottom line, you'd better be able to pay another eighty gil per week."

The damp resignation that washed over Stenden surprised him. He'd always been pale, in skin and hair, but he was looking increasingly insubstantial by the day. "Not if I want to eat."

"Oh, hell," said Lara distractedly. "You've just been evicted, now if I can just find a subletter with gil for a change…"

It felt inevitable, somehow, he mulled as he bundled his extra clothing into his worn canvas pack. Ever since Vector, everything seemed so damn inevitable. He searched through the jury-rigged shambles of a room, in the chipping, varnished cabinets, in the little ornate chest, beside the iron stove. Blanket. Overcoat. Repulsive-looking dried fruit from Nikeah. Cheap civilian buckler. The flute he used to earn his bread at the Black Leaf. Shortsword, to belt around his waist. And…

He dug vigorously through the straw in his mattress to retrieve his old brownsuit. Stenden could never reason why he wouldn't give the thing up – even without Fanatics to worry about, he didn't think an average man would care to distinguish between the Empire and its top general. But he knew beyond reason that the old world could not be let go.

Oh, that's it, Stenden, stick it at the top of your pack for easy picking. He shoveled out his other things, spread the blanket out to cushion the touch, laid his uniform within, and strategically filled in his other items, one by one.

He paused when he reached the darkwood flute, though. Perhaps he would return to the Black Leaf for today, and give Jidoor a proper send-off.

-

Promotional duty in Jidoor was one of the best perks of the opera life, but the imminent departure of the Impresario's troupe was what gave Danfry his genuine smile as he handed out flyers for Impresario's last performance at the Grand Opera.

It was a deliberately nonsensical and futile piece designed to cater to the Jidooran rich. Danfry had made meticulous notes to him on the many inconsistencies: the heroine, suave and witty for the first few scenes, turning into a raging maniac midway through the fifth scene apropos of nothing – the way the pickpocket popped up in nearly every scene, regardless of whether he could get there on time, where he was supposed to be going or even whether the scenes were supposed to be simultaneous – but according to Impresario, it was all some sort of artistic choice. The futility, Danfry recognized at once. He'd been fighting futility since the Empire took South Figaro, and there were better ways to fight it here in the opera house than quibbling with an inflated playwright. At least the music was still very much in Impresario's sweeping style.

A bored woman in the green turban of the vagrancy police eyed him to make sure he wouldn't start calling like a common Zozo hawker. Danfry lifted his head to the blue-tinged sky and took no note of her.

"Where's Maria going after this, then?" asked a teenage boy, gazing at his flyer.

"The Maranda Theatre," said Danfry with deep satisfaction. "Not nearly as equipped as the Grand Opera, of course, and only just repaired into working –"

The boy tried and failed to keep his look of boredom. "You mean they found Maranda?"

"Yes, a month ago," said Danfry, fighting down his irritation that he didn't already know. "It's a clear eastern corridor from the Grand Opera. If you ever go to see a show there, though, keep well clear of the desert."

"No worries, I'll see her at your joint, too," called the boy over his shoulder.

Maria's move would surely be bad for business, Danfry knew, but as long as they could still afford to live there, that was a plus, in a way. The opera, and the special guests that showed up now and again, would garner less attention. Maria leaving was a plus no matter what – she had become ridiculously high-maintenance after the death of the company's two best tenors. Whether she had carried a torch for either, and whether she cared at all or was simply distraught at having been shown up by a novice, was a highly contested subject among opera veterans out of her earshot, and because she suspected so, Maria had become dangerously nosy. Banon hadn't persuaded Impresario to take his troupe away a moment too soon.

A well-to-do greying man with watery blue eyes took his last flyer and handed it to his small son, who barely glanced over the page and said, "Father, this looks awful. I don't want to see this trash."

The father made some fawning, mollifying gesture to his whining son. Danfry turned away from them, hoping very much they wouldn't attend, to enjoy the rest of his day in the flourishing city.

-

No more of the artificial dissonance so popular with the auction-house types, who always wanted what they did not have, even if it was ruin and decay. Stenden's pieces today would be as vibrant as the rose garden by the window. Once the cacophonous drummer was done, he began with an obscure bawdy concerning the notoriously seedy Red Banner Inn of Vector, but without his voice, no one need know that. The rollicking tune, which somehow transmitted the humor of the lyrics, was all they needed to hear.

Sure enough, after the song was done, many of the Black Leaf guests whispered to each other with patronizing amusement evident in their faces. The less-fashionable might have applauded more vigorously than usual, but he wasn't really sure. That peaky-looking man in the worn leather overcoat, though, gazed avidly at him, with an analytical air Stenden didn't much like, but with true fascination, too.

He performed three more pieces he'd managed to dredge his memory for – the last one being the Ballad of Madrigan Mezzo, a barely-concealed satire of the big wig in South Figaro, which the terminally incorrigible South Figaroans had been perfectly willing to sing within his earshot, but he supposed the tune was the important thing.

The yield of gil, as Stenden had suspected, was somewhat less than usual, but more of the lower level left tips, and the stranger left him forty gil. Frankly, it astonished Stenden that he could afford it, especially after ordering a pear from Owzer's orchards.

Satisfied that he had made an impression, he grabbed his heavy canvas bag from the floor and started towards the innkeeper, but he felt a tap on the shoulder and turned vaguely to see the stranger.

"If I could talk with you for a moment?"

"I'll need to resign first," said Stenden stiffly.

"I'll wait."

The innkeeper, walking past, said, "Good of you to quit before the regulars have your head. This is a high-culture tavern, and they'd never let you forget that."

"That's not why I quit. Next time you see Hanzer, tell him that his art collection is too large already, and that his rent collection will dwindle shortly."

"You seem to appreciate Owzer's gallery well enough."

"You know what I mean," said Stenden quickly. The last thing he needed was for someone to probe his newfound interest in Owzer's gallery. "Anyway, I resign."

The innkeeper walked off with ill-disguised irritation.

"I thought that bag was a bit overstuffed for everyday use," said the stranger. "Where were you planning to go?"

"Er… Maranda, I suppose." It was preferable to Zozo – everything short of the damn tower was preferable to Zozo – but the traitor Celes's overzealous tactics had made sure he would never be truly welcome there. Stenden couldn't afford a ship.

"As musically skilled as you are, you can do better. We'll need a flutist at the Grand Opera after _Argument with the Tide _has finished its run, and we'll give you lodging as long as you work there. Woodwinds garner about six-fifty a week, I think. I'm promoting _Argument_ now, but promotional duty rotates. You'll see Jidoor again. Actually, the opera house isn't so bad-looking either, though it somewhat lacks for vegetation."

"Ah," said Stenden, appealed by the job but somehow uneasy. "You wouldn't have a name, would you?"

"Ah, sorry. My name's Danfry; I'm the chief script editor. To get the interview, ask for Artram." He lowered his voice. "And as the chief script editor, I can tell you, in strict confidence, mind, that _Argument with the Tide_ is Impresario's worst yet, but, well, you probably know the man's ego."

There were too many egos about Jidoor to keep track of, but pulling at a vague memory, he asked, "Including the one where a monster killed the male leads on stage and the female lead was kidnapped?"

"The worst _planned_ opera," said Danfry. "Actually, _The Dream Oath_ is the best of the lot, I think, but they haven't performed it since."

"The lead was Maria, wasn't it? How did she escape?"

"It… I don't really want to discuss it," said Danfry, looking more wary than embarrassed.

"Well, I'll find out soon enough, I suppose. Your offer sounds good to me."

Danfry was delighted. "Then once the day is out, we'll go to the chocobo stables. The less time spent in the wilderness, the better. In the meantime, though, I'll enjoy the view."


	2. Artram

**Chapter Two: Artram**

The opera house really _wasn't_ bad to look at. Gold-woven red carpets, marble railings, brass statues, well-dressed theatre workers bustling about on stonework just imposing enough to be impressive…

Also, the lobby windows, strictly designed to let light in, didn't offer much of a view. By the looks of it, it hadn't so much as rained on this spot since the world's fall.

Stenden walked with Danfry to the brass reception desk, behind which sat a broad-framed young man with a pronounced squint.

"Hello, Halson," said Danfry.

"Who's that with you?"

Stenden waved a hand to indicate he'd rather introduce himself, thanks. "Name's Stenden. If Artram's available, I'll speak to him about a job in the orchestra."

"I can't leave now," said Halson apologetically. "They'll be buying tickets any minute. Hey, Dela?"

"Yes?" asked a rushed-looking sandy-haired woman somewhat acerbically.

"Could you see if Artram can take his interview right now?" Halson jerked a thumb toward him. "Orchestra."

"Yes, I could," said Dela more softly, drawing herself up. "Just a moment."

"She's _our_ troupe's lead soprano," said Danfry as she walked composedly up the stairs. "Not as good as Maria, but definitely easier to manage under pressure."

"What makes you so frustrated with Maria?"

"Just as a taste – in _A Warrior's Wife_, she was so irritated by the villain's subtlety that, even after Impresario told her the understatement was just what he'd – speak of the devil." For Maria had just shoved her way into the lobby.

In Owzer's gallery, Maria wore an elegant hair ribbon and an elaborate ballroom dress. The Maria stalking past them to the main stage doors had unadorned hair, a no less elaborate but more form-fitting dress, and a cape. With that forbidding expression on her face, she looked… she looked almost…

Chills ran through his body, and a myriad of thoughts warred in his head.

"Stenden," asked Halson after a moment, "you don't know about the Setzer crisis?"

"You mean the captain of the Blackjack?" asked Stenden hoarsely.

"He was then. But anyway, Maria's been in the opera for ten years, and we definitely know her."

"So what's this about Setzer?" he asked, reassured, but only a bit.

"Can't it wait?" said Danfry to Halson. "He's about to speak to Artram."

Halson opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment, Dela emerged from the balcony.

"Artram is ready to take your interview."

Stenden breathed to clear his mind of Setzer, and concentrated hard as he could on musical matters.

Artram waited, seated, in a small room to the left of the balcony. He was well into middle age, with short blond-to-grey hair, bristling eyebrows, and a rather square jaw.

"Sit," he said, gesturing at an upholstered chair in the corner.

Stenden laid down his bag and took a seat, somehow calmed.

"Dela missed telling me your name."

"Name's Stenden."

"What was your last job?"

"I played the flute for a tavern in Jidoor. They didn't give me a very good selection, though," he added, smiling slightly.

Artram nodded. "Jidooran fashion. I don't think much of it myself. You lived there, then?"

"Until I was evicted."

"How was it?" asked Artram, leaning forward.

"People were generally stuffy. Basically good-natured, though. With notable exceptions. But the smell, and the look, and the _sky_… I wouldn't have left if I could help it."

Stenden didn't say such things, but now, it seemed perfectly natural. Artram's entire demeanor invited trust and confidences. And after all, who didn't cherish that vibrance of the old world, deep down?

"You'll be applying for another flute position, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get yourself prepared," said Artram, rising to his feet. "I'll be back with scores to test your reading."

Stenden extracted his flute from his pack, swabbed it out swiftly with his rag, did a quick scale. He was focused and sure in a way he hadn't been in, oh, ages. Possibly not since his part in the taking of South Figaro, decisive and bloodless.

He'd been under General Leo then.

Stenden shook his head violently. Remember the purpose you just felt. Brooding won't help. Breathe. Focus.

Kefka, you utter bastard.

"Any word from Thamasa?" asked Stenden to Artram when he came back. He thought it sounded offhand enough.

"Not yet," he replied, and did not press the subject. He seemed very sure about that "yet", too, as if there were any way of knowing that the place hadn't simply fallen into the sea. "Now then, here is your first piece."

The harmony was a basic sort of martial rhythm, which Stenden found natural as speech, and used to collect himself. The melody, which he played next, was another matter. Carefree, with a wild beauty, its edge was somehow lyrical. Poignant. It filled his chest with an intense, pure emotion he couldn't quite name. Artram had a faraway look about him as Stenden played, just as moved as the player.

He played an old Kohling ballad after that, and a dance harmony from _The Dream Oath._ He moved to playing by ear, then was asked about composition (which he had never done), but he thought the job was in the bag after that first, unattributed piece. At any rate, he was happy, but not altogether surprised, to be hired.

As they walked out of the room, Artram called out to a swarthy woman in a bizarrely bright merchant's outfit. "Nerissa, could you show our new flutist around while I take his things to his quarters?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but Artram had already taken up Stenden's bag. It was better, at this stage, to act as though he had nothing to hide – he might not be searched that way.

"You know, we're quite lucky to have you," said Nerissa as Artram left the balcony. "We'll have to make do with half the orchestra missing once Impresario's gone – and the actors too, I suppose, but the actors only intermingle when necessary. And between _our_ lead tenor and _their_ lead soprano, I can't really blame them. I mingle more than most, though – they always need a lot of bit parts, I don't know how any of the writers will ever cut down. At any rate, the room you just left has a door to the catwalk, but the lock is in the effects room, on the other side. Has a trap door, lights, sound effects… This is the balcony, obviously –"

"Speaking of Maria, what's the Setzer crisis?"

"I'm a bit of a veteran here, so I could tell you better than most," she said as they walked down the stairs – quite a few Jidoorans and Marandans were already in line for tickets. "I was a floater then – Impresario was the only one with a fixed troupe at the time, and even before the incident he wasn't the kind of man I'd like to work for – well, anyway, Setzer wrote a Wandering Gambler note to Maria, saying he'd kidnap her. Well, Maria was always a bit touched, thought it was rather dashing, but Impresario found the letter, and _he _wasn't too pleased with it. Drank himself into a right stupor." She led Stenden through the auditorium doors. "There's the orchestra pit – the woodwind section is to the far right. You'll be sitting _there._ What's your name, by the way?"

"Stenden. What were you saying about Maria?"

"Oh, right. So he comes back from a friendly visit with Owzer, sporting the world's most exquisite hangover, but he's pretty pleased with himself. Tells Maria she's safe and hides her in one of the rehearsal rooms – that's far backstage, past the sets here – the Castle of the West, though, same play, is still in a heap outside, they never bothered to repair it after _that _day, though Halson's always pushing for it –"

Stenden had seen it against the side of the opera, a dusty heap of broken pressboard covered in chunks of stone-colored plaster, white at the cracks.

"That happened during the Setzer crisis?" asked Stenden with some alarm.

"No, no, not _that_ day. You know. _That_ day."

"Ah, do you mean…"

Nerissa was suddenly tight-lipped, which Stenden took as confirmation.

"Never mind. I'm sorry. So what happened to make Impresario change his mind?"

"He didn't. Well, at least Maria did. Reconciled herself to the idea that being kidnapped wasn't the best idea, which is good, considering what else was in store for her, but anyway, they used a decoy."

Oh hell.

"Incredible he happened upon her, really. Looked practically identical, had a _lovely_ voice – you know, they _say _it was Celes, the Imperial general who escaped from South Figaro, but I don't think a Magitek Knight would know much in the way of music, do you?"

"So Setzer took her instead?" asked Stenden, as calmly as he could.

"Yes, yes," said Nerissa impatiently, "but that's past the meat of the story – that's the mass rehearsal room to your right, a few subdivisions to the left – completely soundproof to the outside – Thamasan construction, I'm told, finest in the world, but the Jidoorans we hired to patch this place up weren't bad themselves. Room's ideal for orchestra, dance, you name it. Anyway, I was actually on stage when all hell broke loose…"

And as she turned from the stage, she babbled incessantly about a land-octopus and the Impresario's inconsideration to Maria, whose personal life was apparently quite wrapped up in the whole affair. Occasionally, she punctuated her chatter with a detail of the building. Well, whatever his social faults, the Impresario certainly lacked consideration for how his actions might affect others. Giving the Returners the world's only airship, just to keep things smooth with the troupe… good that the land-octopus denied him that. Better that the fool was on his way out, so Stenden wouldn't have to look at him.

But it didn't change the basic fact: the Esper horde razed Vector on Impresario's witless account.

"Halson," said Nerissa, flipping back the drape of her merchant's hat, "stop fobbing off the ticket-booth on the rest of us. It _is_ your job, you know."

"I had to discuss the script with, you know, Artram and the rest." said Halson, looking somewhat weak in the knees. "That's my job too, and I'm heading back."

"You don't act, you can't be much use with the script," snapped Nerissa. "You wouldn't know where Artram put his things?"

"Main quarters."

"Very well, then, like I told you, men are the west end, just short of the balcony stairs. Can't follow you there, of course."

"Could you show me, then?" Stenden asked Halson.

"'Fraid not. I have a job to do –" he jerked his thumb at the growing queue – "and I couldn't help you regardless, as I don't sleep there."

Stenden did not enjoy the prospects of his pack left in a fairly public room. He walked as quickly as was reasonable to his door.

-

"Halson – Danfry –" said Banon, emerging from the main quarters, "may I have a word with you about our next production?"

Halson glanced at the doors. "Could you hold the guests until I'm done with this?" he asked a shadow standing idly by.

"They won't be happy about it, if they're as self-righteous as usual," said the lanky youth, though shuffling behind the desk all the same.

"Duty calls."

And he followed Danfry – not to the rehearsal rooms, not this soon before a play – just to the little red-carpeted suite behind the right balcony statue, where Dela, Hoven the composer, and a few others Halson hadn't yet got to know were already seated. The general hubbub was nearly as good as that silence spell, but Halson knew some who might turn the same commotion into an opportunity to catch some gossip. He'd keep an eye on the peephole.

"First things first," announced Banon, standing. "Captain Barkhurst of Nikeah will attend our next performance of _The Enchanted Lake._ He's seeking information on Narshe's whereabouts."

"I can't imagine we know more than he does, then," said Danfry gloomily, settling down on the floor. "With all the effort we've put into finding those extra forces… the Elder…" He shook his head.

"Ah, but maybe we do," said Hoven with that maddening grin. His leather Returner's cap was in place as usual for the meeting. Aside from Hoven, Halson had never seen the genuine article even in the old world, but he admired the touch. "They've just reorganized carrier pigeon routes from Kohlingen. And do you know what they say there?"

"Go on," sighed the woman in the corner after a minute of silence. A first violinist, Halson thought.

"They _say_… that they've acquired a new citizen about three months ago."

"Dance on around those facts, Hoven," said Dela. "You've so dizzied yourself that you're bound to run into them soon."

"Besides," said Halson, taking another glance through the peephole, "who doesn't know when the Sundering was? Elaborate, won't you?"

"A Narshe guard. Washed onto the Dragon's Neck two days after. He was conscious."

"And thus can retrace his journey to an extent," Banon finished, eyes aglow. "Very well. Very well indeed. Danfry, alter the Song of Mead to point Barkhurst to Kohlingen. And as soon as possible, we'll want to get in touch with the man ourselves."

"_Narshe,_" whispered the first violinist in awe.

"Now, onto opera business. Firstly, be very sure to keep the new flutist in the dark. He's Stenden, the very pale one. A regrettable waste – his heart is in the right place – but in my search of his belongings, I found an Imperial brownsuit deep in his pack. He won't desire to know me as anything but Artram."

"Imperial?" said Danfry, astounded. "I chose him in part because he played Madrigan Mezzo at the Black Leaf."

"Why take on this liability?" demanded Dela. "Why shed the Impresario if we're willing to take up an Imperial dog in his stead? Find another flutist."

"We won't cast him out. He's a very good musician. He played Arvis's composition better than any I've seen, and if we'll sacrifice our artistic quality –"

Dela rose from her chair, incensed. "You admire an Imperial take on Arvis's work? You, who yourself saw the bloody Magitek soldiers _shoot him through the back_ scant days after we talked peace?"

"Dela," said Danfry hastily, "he played Madrigan Mezzo. He must have some experience in South Figaro."

"He also seemed attached to Thamasa," muttered Banon, his back to the throng.

"It wouldn't be his hometown, I don't think," said Danfry, with a meaningful glance at Dela. "Too isolated. Hasn't had many dealings with the Empire."

"Oh, I see how it is, then. General Leo, General Leo, you all seem to think so highly of him! And would you be speaking with Banon if your General Leo hadn't had _experience_ in South Figaro? And would I be –" Dela glanced away abruptly. "…Very well. I suppose it does count for something. Banon, please accept my apology. I didn't mean to –"

"Don't mention it," said Banon brusquely. "And remember your instructions regarding Stenden. Secondly –" he turned back to face them – "we'll need an alto stronger on acting than I've found in the chorus. Halson – have you discussed the matter with your sister?"

He had on his last promotional visit, over the family's signature tea (the leaves still thriving on the windowsill). Nenna had the talent, and she'd never wanted anything more than to leave the puffed-up Jidoorans behind, but she'd declined all the same, and declined to tell why, in a thoroughly distracted manner.

"Yes, and I think that's what she wants, in her heart, but… she's holding back."

"It is hard, to leave such a place behind," said a red-haired man, nodding.

"She said… she said she wouldn't miss Jidoor herself. She was going to say something after that, but she swallowed it. I don't know why she won't come – doesn't look as though she will, though. I'll do my best to wring something solid from her on my next trip."

"If she's still in Jidoor by then," said Hoven with a furtive look. "I don't like the sound of it…"

"What do you mean?" said Halson, a nameless fear rising within him.

"I mean –" Hoven gave Halson an apologetic look – "what if… what if she's in that circle by now? That circle of mountains."

The Fanatics' Tower. He couldn't possibly think such a thing. Halson could trust his sister to any extent…

…and yet, he hadn't told her the truth about the opera, had he? If anybody could be drawn to Kefka from the loveliness of Jidoor, it was somebody who loathed the citizens more than they loved the land. And in all the tales they told of the Cult, people had an odd, distant air scant days before they vanished…

He closed his eyes.

"I'll go to Jidoor straight after the performance. If anything… if Nenna… well, I'll see."

He glanced out the peephole again. No one listening, mercifully. But the queue was piling up.

"If you'd excuse me, I have to take care of the guests," said Halson.

"Dismissed," said Banon, inclining his head.

-

In a tight nook of the opera's boiler room, Stenden sighed with relief. The contents of his pack were just as he'd left them.

----------------------------------------

_Author's Note: Halson, the 'new kid on the block' of my story, is a gank of one of the two characters I'd feel comfortable ganking from my TV show of choice. I only say this to see if anyone else has seen it, not because I expect the rest of you to care._


	3. Inspirations

**Chapter Three: Inspirations**

The half-light before the sun's rise may have been healthier here than anywhere in the world, but there were phantoms in the crannies of every stone edifice, and all that was lush by day had a grey pall cast about it.

Halson finished securing Dobbs to his sister's wrought-iron fence. He was the hardiest chocobo at the opera, but the pace Halson had set him had put the poor bird at the end of his tether. And something out there in the wilds had spooked him, too – Halson had only seen a glimpse, but it had to be five feet high, and nearly twice as long.

The windows were blank and dark. If he was too late… Halson charged desperately to the door and all but beat it down with his fists.

After a minute, he paused to listen. Not a sound.

He slumped against the doorframe. "Nan, please, if you have a mind to hear me with, open the bloody door."

Not a damned sound.

He'd lost her. Lost her to Kefka.

The door gave out from his side. Nenna was standing over him in her smock, hand at the hilt of a shortsword.

"Show yourself!" she yelled, with more than a touch of fear.

"You're…" said Halson wordlessly.

Nenna glanced swiftly down. "Halson! What happened to you? Are they all right down at the opera?"

"I was concerned about you, you idiot," muttered Halson, rising to his feet.

"What on earth have you heard?" That odd, airy tone was back. "Come on in, you could use some rest. Why didn't you break it to me a week ago?"

"Why the greeting?" said Halson, stepping into the stone house in a dreamlike haze. The first ray of sunlight shone through the parlor window.

"Hammering away on the door like an Imperial commando in old Tzen, and then you ask me to explain the hostilities?" Nenna threw her hands up in exasperation. The knuckles were filthy with dark brown dirt.

"Rediscovered the basement tunnels, have we, Nan?"

"Yes, but never mind that," she said, drawing him up a chair with the usual dramatic flourish. "You – what? – raced a chocobo fifty leagues through the wilds at the dead of night, just for a welfare check? You don't look well."

Halson examined the woodgrain and kneaded his forehead. How could he tell her what he'd thought? "Neither do you." True enough: her thin, shadowed look contrasted all the more sharply against her broad frame.

"Neither does the chocobo. I think a good bucket of tea would perk him up, though, if he can wait for it."

Halson snorted. "It's you, all right. Get Dobbs plain water, won't you?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" she asked, picking up a bucket. "Was it that short girl from the other troupe? What did she say, that my evil twin had emerged from long years of hiding and come after my property? She always had a bad case of mouth-diarrhea."

"If you mean Nerissa, I'm in her troupe now, remember? But… that is to say… well, look, I wouldn't have thought it, it was the composer's idea… Hoven, that is, not Impresario… I mentioned how you wouldn't tell me why you wouldn't go, and, well… Hoven's a bit leery of everything, except fashion, I suppose. And he thought… you know, the way you'd been acting…" Halson couldn't finish. "Look, why _won't_ you leave, if your neighbors are so intolerable?"

"You left Impresario's troupe?" Nenna began pumping water into the bucket, her voice a bit more questioning than Halson would have liked. "You never told me that. Too bad, he's the finest composer in the world. I know _Warrior's Wife_ by heart."

"That's true, but working for Artram is, well, _inspiring._ If you could answer –"

"Well, that's why I won't leave this house, too," said Nenna, pacing to the window and looking out at the rising sun. "I feel inspired."

"For pity's sake, you won't leave the house? You have to handle customers regardless, and you won't even take a stroll outside? Do you have any idea how lucky you are to live in Jidoor? Enjoy it." Privately, though, Halson's last doubt of his sister was gone.

"The vagrancy police haven't appreciated my displays of song and dance. Panhandling, they call it. Having a look is about all they'll let you get away with, and I can do that from here."

Nenna put down the bucket.

"Frankly, Hal, I could be happy never to lay eyes on the upper tier again, and never mind how much tea they buy – well, I suppose Owzer is all right, but he's still not very pleasant to lay eyes on – but my point is, in my opinion, these prigs considerably outweigh whatever good a bit of greenery does when you can't properly enjoy it." Her voice was slowly rising, building up. Typical Nenna, infusing unnecessary drama into every situation. "So all things considered, I myself would have no qualms about leaving Jidoor, but I'm sure even Hanzer, when you get right down to it…" She dropped the thread. "Listen, just what were you so concerned about?"

"You're acting strange, Nenna. Furtive. Distant. And Hoven thought that…" A deep breath. "He thought the Fanatics had put a hold on you."

Nenna stared. "You seriously… you _believed…_ well," she said briskly, flipping her hair the way she always did when she changed tack, "that makes two of us, after you all but pounded my front door to splinters. But I've been training for that sort of thing."

And she unsheathed her shortsword and mimed a few maneuvers at the stove.

Halson dropped his hands to the table and straightened up, appalled.

"Nan, you seriously think you could hold off a Cult member with that thing? They'd burn you to a cinder before you were within ten feet! And unless they think you're hiding General Celes in the basement or something, Kefka wouldn't bother sending Fanatics." He shook his head in disbelief. "Nenna, he'd just bring the damn Light of Judgment down on your house. A little fresh air could do you a world of good, no matter _what _is inspiring you."

"As you're acting pretty secretive yourself, I think you're inspired the same way I am. Then again, a cause in this world, in and of itself… why, it's treason already, isn't it? But you do have a point, as far as it goes. Leaving permanently, though…"

She rolled her eyes.

"I don't know whether you've noticed, Halson, but in the flourishing city, no house stays vacant for long. I can't say for sure who'd replace me. If I start being selective, well, that'd definitely prick some ears. Like I say, I wouldn't mind leaving Jidoor myself, but… oh, it's not something I can just say, trust me on this. Stay back and give your poor bird some water – I'll see if I can show you."

Nenna grabbed a filthy canvas pair of shirt and trousers out from under the table, took the brass oil lantern from the cluttered mantelpiece, and strode down into the basement.

Halson looked to the ceiling, bewildered but relieved, and took up the pail.

-

Danfry's critical opinion struck Stenden as a solid one, and he did not return to see _Argument with the Tide_ after he'd found a good, cobwebby crawl space for his uniform.

However, the majestic music wafting into the men's quarters last night gave him his reservations. That was presumably Maria out there, giving every impression of a towering rage, with marvelous overtones and perfect pitch throughout. If theatre workers got cheap tickets in addition to room and board, the spectacle might well make up for the plot.

It was dread of the board that kept him in his room this morning, dully contemplating the fairly clinical (albeit richly-colored) row of beds and cabinets. One thing that had escaped his nostalgia was army fare – or the fare the South Figaroans dished up at the Rosebud Café, sabotaged a different way every time, but never more than marginally edible. He'd been eating in Jidoor for a month and a half, but the Grand Opera imported from Zozo to keep costs down. Stenden shuddered to think.

Still, his own troupe had practice to do – _The Enchanted Lake_, an old classic – and while an unburdened stomach was good for the lung capacity, a hungry stomach wouldn't help at all. He heaved himself from his springboard bed – at the very least, he'd lose his appetite.

The dining hall, opposite the backstage waiting room, had impeccable design, with its pronged, high-backed chairs and its polished darkwood columns bedecked with gold leaf, the table adorned with silver that straddled the line between ornate and gaudy. No doubt the guests dined here after the show – the trek to Jidoor or Maranda would be miserable without it – but now it seemed to be solely theatre workers. Maria was shouting at some poor fellow about his performance last night while an angular man in a ridiculous powdered wig tried vainly to console her. Stenden took a seat and resolutely looked away from the Impresario feeding his fat face.

The staple appeared to be mushrooms. Come to think of it, Stenden couldn't imagine what else could grow in such a damp, miserable rathole as Zozo, but there was also a large platter of rather sickly mulberries, probably from the mountains. Was that range still called the Western Pike? Well, more pertinently –

"This food…" began Stenden to the somewhat round gentleman at his right, "…it's imported from Zozo, right?"

The man nodded briskly.

"Well, if they're as hard-up and dishonest as everyone says, who's to say nobody's trying to earn a few scraps off a few odd fungi in some chance patch, never mind if it's edible?"

"Some of them do," said a sandy-haired woman to his left with an air of pride. Why did she look so familiar? Oh hell, it was the lead soprano, he'd have to get this straight. "But they've never yet got it past me, and they've never since sold to the opera."

She looked at him askance.

"You'd be Stenden? The pale one?"

"Yes," said Stenden nervously.

"Mmm," said the lead soprano – Dela, that was her name – and turned away stiffly. Stenden hoped he wouldn't be practicing any of her backup later today, as he'd clearly rubbed her the wrong way – or more likely, that gossip, Nerissa, had. Manageable indeed.

"Stenden, is it?" said a short man, hurrying toward him. He was unremarkable himself, but he wore an extravagant hat topped with a blindingly pink plume. "Good. Here are the scores you'll be rehearsing this afternoon –" he handed Stenden a lightweight fold –"and a pigeon's just arrived for you, from Jidoor by the markings." He produced a wax-sealed envelope.

Who knew him in Jidoor? Lara, perhaps? Could it be she'd lowered the rent? Well… not if Stenden knew her landlord. He turned over the envelope.

Hengist of Albrook, said the return address. Hengist… he'd seen that name before.

It was the signature on the new portrait in Owzer's gallery.

He slid the envelope into his pocket. Once he could be assured of privacy…

Ah well, he'd worry about it when it came. In the meantime, the puffballs were passable, and that was more than he'd expected.

-

The tunnel couldn't have been more than three feet high, but she stood upright without even the need to stoop her head. Her hair was like dark moss, her fingers were like green shoots, and her brown, bulbous face was contorted in concentration.

"Halson," said Nenna quietly, "this is Demeter."


	4. In Flames

**Chapter Four: In Flames  
**

"She wouldn't mind leaving Jidoor," finished Halson in one of the small rehearsal rooms. "But she _would_ mind if Jidoor left itself."

"Pity we can't tell her about us," said Danfry, the nib pen loose in his hand. Funny that he'd never quite asked _why _Jidoor had endured the Sundering so well; scholars were not supposed to take such things for granted. "We might lend a hand."

"Are you crazy? She's hiding an _Esper_ in her house, who happens to be fighting the ruin – of _course _I told her!"

Danfry wordlessly conceded the point.

"And she says if she can reasonably stage a sale to someone who can handle a long-range weapon, she'll take the job, but by the time it comes to that..." Halson shook his head. "Basically, we'll have to find another alto, it's our best shot. Demeter's, too."

"Dela is a fair hand at the Figaro crossbow, but there's no way she could overcome the Fanatics," agreed Danfry. "Now, if we still had Terra… that'd be different. As it is, though, secrecy _is_ our best hope."

"Terra was the half-Esper? Not exactly discreet."

"No, but powerful. After all, the Sabil cavern didn't need to be secret while its defense was strong." And couldn't possibly have survived these three months, Danfry did not add. "At one time, you know, we thought Terra our best hope. No, worse, we thought her our last hope. And there is _never_ a last hope. Remember that."

Halson the novice looked less than enchanted at his pronouncement. "I can't help but think we're running out of the good ones."

Danfry grasped for a good, firm counter – consolations were just air – and a wild idea began to form in his mind. "Perhaps not," said Danfry, smiling slightly. "And if not, I owe it to you."

The Song of Mead could wait. Danfry was headed out to the rocky shore – something about those wine-red waves always helped him think.

"And there's always Narshe," said Halson behind him.

-

"A good run," said Artram. "You've not forgotten the Romp of the Faeries – we'll just have to fine-tune the… bridge a bit more. Calderat, your death is _not _a pratfall. Do tone it down."

Calderat, the lead tenor, shrugged nonchalantly. Stenden had the impression he was fighting down a snigger.

"Lynn, are the props for the tavern in order?"

"Yes sir," said one of the first violinists. "Just put the finishing touches on that banner."

"Very well. We meet at the same time tomorrow, our chief focus the first act. Dismissed."

"So," muttered Stenden to the violinist as they filed out of mass rehearsal, "you're a violinist and a prop designer, Dela is the lead soprano and manages the inventory, Hoven is the postmaster and the conductor… does the one who assigns these things perhaps play the tambourine on the side?"

"Mmm, well," said Lynn, looking a bit taken aback, "if we only stuck to the one job, there'd be only two people on promotional duty, and one would be assigned to Maranda, so don't complain."

"What about Kohlingen – back then, I mean?"

"I imagine they did advertise there," said Lynn airily, "but it was a bit before my time." And she bustled off without further ado, glancing back at him out of the corner of her eye.

The women here were positively Jidooran. And yet somehow, he felt more _alive_ here at the opera than he ever had in the flourishing city.

Perhaps it was simply the envelope in his pocket.

Stenden walked briskly out of the auditorium, down the rickety stairs to the boiler room. Now was as good a time as any.

The light of the sputtering torch on the wall wasn't nearly as good for reading as it was for checking his bag, but here the chances of discovery were slimmer than anywhere else in the theatre.

He carefully opened the envelope.

_Stenden:_

_Owzer tells me you admire my work,_

_which is frankly more than I can say for_

_myself. I've often thought I should have_

_been hanged for it – it certainly doesn't _

_hold a candle to any of my other pieces – _

_and I rather suspect Owzer would never_

_have taken it if the patron hadn't paid him_

_handsomely. Be that as it may, I thank you._

_Regards,_

_Hengist of Albrook_

Stenden groaned in disappointment. All that anticipation, just for some twaddle about the circumstances of the gallery placement? Admittedly, it was interesting, and the Emperor's portrait really _was _rather crude, but somehow he'd expected something, well, _more. _At least he needn't have wasted so much paper on it, especially given the generous right-hand margin…

Ah.

_hold a candle to any of my other pieces –_

Invisible ink. An old dodge, but good enough to fool these theatre types, anyway.

Stenden stood and held the paper before the torch. Sure enough, brown words began to form on the page.

_I am told to tell you to "talk to the Emperor twice". Tell the same to any other Imperial sol _(the prior phrase crossed out)_ loyalist to _(also crossed out)_ person of your persuasion._

Stenden smiled grimly. "People of his persuasion" did not tend to make themselves known.

_I am also told to put you in touch with a "Bagian the Mountaineer", but I have no idea how I may do that. He formerly lived in Tzen, and I've heard he has been seen in Nikeah since _(that telling word was vigorously scribbled out)_ in the past three months, but my sources may not be entirely reliable._

_Please destroy this message; our necks are on the line._

Talk to the Emperor twice, he chanted in his head. Bagian the Mountaineer. Who had told the painter this? His patron, who must have been the Emperor himself? Stenden whistled softly.

Emperor Gestahl was brave indeed, to leave secrets to a man too frightened even to write the word _Sundering _in invisible ink. But Hengist did have a point.

Talk to the Emperor twice. Contact Bagian the Mountaineer. Stenden drilled those phrases into his mind as he put the letter to the torch.

-

Danfry, now at a loss, sat on the rocky perch and looked out north on a little fleet in the distance. Going into his plan with the necessary assumptions – that Demeter could leave Jidoor for a time without letting it slide into decay, and that she would be willing to do so – the old caravan ruse seemed the obvious choice.

The old caravan ruse always ran a hundred times smoother when there was an actual business behind it. Expanding to Jidoor, if only slightly, was easy enough – after all, Halson's sister did sell tea leaves wholesale. The opera had to boil all their water regardless; they might as well flavor it a bit.

But Danfry couldn't think of a blessed thing Maranda exported these days, and rejuvenating Maranda was the entire point.

The bloody sun was low in the yellow sky, and the sea darkened to crimson. Soon the theatre-goers would return for another round of _Argument with the Tide_, another dose of futility, in this world where the mere journey would –

It appeared, in the midst of the little fleet, like fire, but with the color of a white-hot ember.

The Light of Judgement.

Danfry stood bolt upright and raced to the opera house to deliver the news.

--------------------------------------------------------------

_Author's Note: This chapter has been resubmitted, as I uploaded it without checking with my beta, and the drama didn't strike quite the right notes. Expect Chapter Five within twenty-four hours, after I've run it past her._


	5. Argument with the Tide

**Chapter Five: Argument with the Tide**

The leather-bound record-book fell to the desk.

"Sorry, ma'am," said Halson quietly to the forbidding feather-bedecked woman he was about to sign in, "I think we've changed our arrangements."

"Halson, get some stuntmen," panted Danfry. "I'll go down… to the stockroom for rope, see if anything that floats is down there… have them look out for survivors."

"I _believe_ I was here to see Argument with the Tide?"

"Change of plans, lady," Halson shouted over his shoulder as he wrenched open the theatre doors.

"Everyone!" The seats were already a third of the way filled. "The show's just been canceled, can anyone here climb or swim or anything?"

"Canceled?" bellowed the Impresario over the sea of complaints. "It's my production, what right do you have to cancel it?"

"The Light's hit boats to the north!" yelled Halson as loud as he could muster. "We need every hand!"

That quieted most of them. A pallid young man stood up in the audience and stepped to him. Stenden, he realized. The Imperial soldier. He _would _know how to climb and swim, at that.

"_Our_ hands are full with my greatest masterpiece, thank you, and it's the last week I'll ever perform at this site, so if you'd be so kind –"

"I'm all right with climbing," said a youth in merchant's garb, emerging from behind the curtain. "Where –"

"Ail, don't be foolish!" Impresario stage-whispered, twisting his fingers in agitation. "You're pivotal to the theme of the entire second act; the production will be ruined!"

"Nothing worse than _that,_ right, Impresario?" Stenden muttered.

At that, Maria herself burst through the curtain, shot Impresario a furious glare, and strode to meet Halson.

"Oh, _I _see," said someone in the audience. "It's part of the play."

"Poor taste, I must say. Though I don't mind a spoken line for once."

"Maria?" said Halson, bewildered. "In all the time I've worked with you, I've never seen you climb a rope, and you don't seem like a swimming type."

"Maybe not," said Maria impatiently, "but I know enough about drowning by now. Were you going to send no one for recovery, idiot?"

"I guess the show's over," said Ail, hopping off the stage. "So, er, what's the plan?"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" cried the Impresario, the back of his hand to his forehead. "The show must go on!"

"Not this time," Maria snarled.

And she grabbed Halson by the forearm and dragged him out of the theatre.

"What _is _the plan?"

"Uh, set up lookouts along the shore from, uh, the pile of redstone to the east to, let me think, that lightning-struck oak up north." Halson was suddenly disconcerted that these new landmarks didn't have _names._ "And a good runner, I guess, to bring them together."

"Ah," said Hoven's voice behind them, "I've never met anyone who could outrun me outside of South Figaro."

Halson groaned. He suspected Hoven was gratuitously bringing up his old Returner days, and now was not the time.

"Rope," Danfry announced to his right, "torches, and I've sent Dela to fetch blankets from the main quar-"

The theatre doors burst open, and two-hundred-odd disgruntled and frightened customers spilled out.

"Maria resigning after I'd paid through the nose…"

"Probably too occupied to give us a refund, let alone a show…"

"The Light, he said, didn't he, what if that's Ernest's ship?"

"What's going on?" shouted some woman still in the queue.

"Show's over, Maria's quit, let's go home."

"What?" shrieked Maria. "I certainly haven't –"

"You can't go out in the wilds at night!" yelled Halson, panicked. "Not on foot!"

But he was only one voice in the growing bedlam.

"If the Light's out there, we're bloody well staying here!"

"So many warm bodies packed together?"

"What, you think the opera's opposed Kefka?"

"They're trying to _rescue _these people, of _course _they're opposing Kefka!"

"HALT!" bellowed Stenden, so loud that the rasp must have damaged his vocal chords.

They halted.

"Right, then. Well, leave if you want to, and don't if you don't, but I won't have anyone, er, trampling each other's faces on the way to the door. Keep order, please. Thanks."

Incredibly, they did as they were told.

"What about the monsters?" whispered Halson. "I think they're getting nastier –"

"When there are enough of you," said Stenden in an undertone, "they'll leave you alone. Trust me, they'll be a lot safer out there than we will."

Dela stood in the doorway to the women's quarters, jaw loose and a pile of blankets at her feet.

"I'm glad to have you on board, Stenden," said Danfry, clapping his shoulder.

-

What had he been thinking?

Yes, Stenden supposed it had come out all right, at least for now, but did he really have to choose the word "halt", of all the words he could have chosen? Maybe he should have picked something a little less stereotypical – "Long live Emperor Gestahl," perhaps.

Even putting that aside, that kind of "speech" had made him a regular joke at the Rosebud Inn. Good-natured enough jokes, but they made him uncomfortably aware of such things, which, here in the torchlight and the cold, made him uncomfortably aware of, well, everything.

He craned his neck to peer down the roughly terraced cliff at the lapping waves, and wondered that he could see a thing, with only a small torch and two distant pinpricks of fire along the shore. He couldn't remember a time when he'd had so little _light_. Even on the march to South Figaro, the sky wasn't shrouded so – dazzling, to his city-boy's eye – and they'd had a good campfire before they drew too near. Vector's army needed little subterfuge.

Someone else might have been spared from that South Figaro unit, someone who'd tarried on the northern continent as he had. But in his city itself – not a chance. Tzen and Maranda – unlikely. Two soldiers had survived the horror of Thamasa, but Kefka must have remedied that by now. Albrook – oh, he'd heard the stories there. That port town, shadowed by the Floating Continent… they were wiped out to a man on the day of the fall, because they were ready to take on Kefka at that moment, unplanned. And if he'd set eyes on the slain Emperor, he knew he would have done the same.

How the mighty fall.

Now subterfuge was the only course, and what had he done but shout "halt" in front of a quarter thousand people?

No. Worrying wouldn't help. Best not mention it, if he could avoid it. Besides, in a small way, wasn't he fighting Kefka at this moment? And the next time he saw Jidoor –

The next wave broke with a resounding crash.

Stenden straightened, alert. The fires in the distance leapt up as well.

_Crash. Crash. _Was that lumber, weaving in and out of the torrent? _Crash. _Fragments of a barrel still clinging to their iron band. Planks. A limp hand –

"It's here!" he shouted to the other lookouts. "Pass it down the line!"

_Crash._ He anchored his rope to a sturdy-looking rock as quickly as he dared. _Crash. _If there _were_ survivors, could they withstand this beating?

The rope was tied. _Crash_. When the wave withdrew, a long-haired man was left clinging to a higher terrace, gasping. Stenden hastily grabbed the rope to swing it to him, but – _crash – _he was gone again.

Barely aware he was doing it, he cast the torch aside, took the rope in both hands, and jumped.

The torch above was extinguished by the cold stone. Stenden couldn't see his hands on his rope.

What had he been thinking?

Icy water struck his back with an incredible force. He clung to the rope with all his strength. The wave drew him back, then released him to slam hard into the cliff wall.

Shivering, left arm aching, Stenden continued the climb down.

He allowed himself what felt like a good two feet at the end of the rope and began, well, flailing about blindly with his left arm while holding tight to the rope with his right.

He inhaled sharply upon hearing that gathering rush. This wave was not as brutal as the last, and his left arm continued to search. He brushed up against a bit of wood, then someone's forearm. It stirred feebly – broken, judging by the swelling. Stenden latched on firmly.

Back on reasonably-dry land, the other person showed no signs of breath, and Stenden was at a loss for what to do next. He'd never been naturally husky – that was acquired, and slipping away. And he'd never attempted to haul someone up a rope, one-handed and numb with cold in total darkness.

Another wave. This one only came up to his waist. The Light's ripples were subsiding.

Perhaps he had a chance down here, too.

Stenden's remembered training was fuzzy on this point – he'd never needed the knowledge before, or done it in practice – but he squared his legs, released the rope, and performed the tried-and-true Rosebud Inn tactic of pounding all daylights out of the back.

Weak coughing. The next wave only rose past Stenden's knees, but withstanding the undertow took all the will in his defensive stance.

The coughing grew stronger, and suddenly, Stenden could see. Was it dawn already? No, east was the other way. Fire from the west, atop the cliff – the others must have arrived. It was the long-haired man he'd seen earlier, who began to spit a great deal of seawater, then, at last, catch a breath.

"Fresh air," he mumbled. "Stay safe… I'm still on my way."

And he vomited down Stenden's shoulder.

-

Never dead until warm and dead, Maria had assured them, but with the one exception, the Light of Judgment had left no survivors, warm or cold.

Moreover, the first thing she said when they arrived at the shipwreck was a lecture to Stenden that mouth-to-mouth was the only proper way to do such things. Had several others not corroborated this, Danfry would chalk up Maria's so-called experience to opera melodramatics.

By the way her urgent haste had ebbed to the perfunctory, even Maria was flagging. Most of the rest sat slumped amid the dead, staring without sight or holding their head in their hands.

"We're going back," she announced at last. "I need to let them know I've not _quit._ Of all the things…"

To her credit, she did not launch into one of her customary rants.

"That's it," said Dela bracingly to the survivor. She'd turned away from the shore, where she kept her vigil. "We'll take you with us to the Grand Opera."

"What?" Still prone on the ground under one of the blankets, he showed no small alarm. "I'm flattered, but I need to get to Kohlingen."

"What, in your state? At the opera, we can, at least, mend that arm. Our troupe leader is a skilled healer."

"No longer than absolutely necessary," he said after a moment, extending Dela his uninjured arm.

For a moment, the whole company – Banon's, Impresario's, floaters, guests, and the survivor – simply stood, holding their fires before them, grim but steady. They knew they could not give them a proper burial here in this bare, hard stone; all they could do was stand.

There was no arguing with the tide.

After a long, silent march through the night, Dela ventured, "If you were headed for Kohlingen, why were you so far south?"

"South Figaro to Nikeah," he said shortly. "Nikeah to Jidoor. Jidoor to Kohlingen. More ships on those routes."

"Nikeah to Jidoor?" whispered Halson to Danfry, alarmed.

Danfry stared at him in horror. "You don't mean… _Barkhurst?_"

"Should we ask –"

"No!" He forced his voice down. "No, not until he's ready to talk about it. You can't press someone who's been through that so soon, Halson."

"But what if, you know, what if he knows we're involved with Barkhurst's expedition?"

"It'd be us first, then. Not him."

But Danfry couldn't help his mind's ear hearing the words of that panicked woman in the atrium.

_They're trying to _rescue_ these people, of _course_ they're opposing Kefka!_

"Danfry?" came Dela's voice in an undertone.

"Ah… yes?"

"Does he look familiar to you too?"

The survivor's face did look as though he ought to put a name to it, but he'd been wrong many times before on that count. "I couldn't say."

"Well, you really should," whispered Hoven from his right, sideways grin in place. "Especially you, Danfry."

Danfry steeled himself for another one of Hoven's tiresome games, but Dela swooped in to spare him. "No. No, I remember where I saw him now."

She leaned close to his ear.

"Vector, Danfry. We owe him our lives."

King Edgar.

The argument was not entirely lost.


	6. Farewell

**Chapter Six: Farewell**

The opera's infirmary was sparse indeed, especially given that entrance – lift the sword in the left suit of armor and the stone rotates beneath you – fantastic. If he put spectacle over substance the way the opera's designers clearly had, it was the sort of thing he would have engineered.

And his choice of defense mechanism, all things considered, should have been as blunt and unshowy as the single white bed and the cold arrays of medical equipment on the bedside table.

"My apologies," said the troupe leader. "The opera is prepared for injury, but doesn't exactly seem to expect it. I'm amazed we can find anyone for the catwalk."

Edgar sat down, his hair stiff with red sea-salt. "So – if there were any other…"

"We'd house them in the main quarters, no doubt." The troupe leader strode to the table and gathered a splint and ties. "As for me, I prefer as few distractions as possible while I work, so this setup is as good as it can get."

It suddenly occurred to Edgar how odd the man looked in those somber coattails, though he couldn't place why.

"Hold still," he said unnecessarily. "You know –" – he began to tie above the crook of his elbow; Edgar gritted his teeth – "some of the women here seem quite taken with you."

"Hmm?" For one of the first times he could remember, Edgar was utterly uninterested.

"Eager to find out more about you, I daresay." The man jerked his head towards the turntable.

"Er –" Unless he was very much mistaken, he was being urged toward discretion, and in a way that suggested this man knew who he was.

The troupe leader began a low muttering. The muttering that meant magic was imminent. Edgar leapt to his feet – and star-blue sparks flew to his arm. Calm washed over him, and he could feel the swelling subside, feel the flesh and bone begin to knit back together.

"You – you're –"

"We haven't been introduced, have we?" said the Returners' leader as though nothing were out of the ordinary. "I am Artram, and I lead a troupe here at the opera. The other troupe leader acquainted me with you."

"Impresario?" He had not seen the man on his way in. Another warning, then.

"Precisely. Once the week is up, he'll move shop to the Maranda Theatre. He believes it will better foster his creative spirit, for whatever reason. If you want to get in touch with him, now is the time, and you do, in any case, need to recover. Let's get you a sling."

Edgar did not sit. "You don't seem to understand, do you? The submerge mechanism is out of commission, the castle's obviously taken a beating – the oxygen generator was meant to hold out for as many as two years if need be, but who _knows_ how much damage it took there in the crumbling earth – I don't care how long I'm supposed to recover, my people need me, and –"

"Be calm," said Banon in a low voice. "I didn't come to this opera with the idea of surrender, Edgar. We're quite busy here, actually, but it is a delicate situation, so do keep your voice down."

Edgar grudgingly took a seat.

"Once I have your arm in order," said Banon, reverting to a normal tone, "would you care for a tea tray? Well, all right, not tea, but the best Zozo can offer, I promise you."

A token of the Returners' gratitude. Illana, the serving-wench in Vector – had so little time passed since then? Had Illana escaped before the Empire found her treason, or the Light hit her city? No, it wasn't the Light of Judgment that destroyed Vector. Edgar rubbed at the grit around his left eye.

"Yes. Thank you."

-

"Well," announced Danfry, laying down his nib pen, "I've finished the Song of Mead; good thing Kohlingen has a reputation for beer. Let's hope it makes a difference."

"No good excuses for breaking the tradition, anyway," said Halson, perched in front of the makeup mirror.

Dela nodded. "A fine job, too. Juggling the humor, the Kohlingen cues, the melody – it's beyond me, I've no doubt. Now that's over, though: just what _were_ you doing out by the shore? I know you, Danfry, there's something brewing."

Halson's sister and the Esper she kept – the night's events had driven it from his mind. And there was the Narshe mission, and Banon was attending to King Edgar as they spoke, and some of the words exchanged last night might have compromised their secrecy…

"Tell everyone we're discussing last-minute script changes in the mass rehearsal room, Halson. But after what happened in the auditorium, I wouldn't like to be in your place."

Halson nodded grimly and slipped through the door out of the small rehearsal room.

-

"Yes," said Edgar, slumped against the head of the bed. He wouldn't have been surprised if the assault on the fleet was simply a game of Kefka's, but it did make sense. "Yes, if he was the husky one in the barroom, shouting at the top of his lungs that he was starting expedition to Narshe… I'm sorry, B- Artram. Er, special seating – you know something, then?"

"Oddly enough," said Banon, barely audible, "our best lead involves Kohlingen. There's a Narshe guard who arrived there more or less the way you came here, on the heels of the Sundering. I'll certainly leave you to your duty, but should you have need of miners' equipment, keep that in mind. I've been waiting to hear from the Elder, myself."

"You know, as far as orientation goes, I was a little more concerned with 'up' than with the compass."

"We have reason to believe that he began his journey after the worst was over, and a short hop by sea to the Northwest, as well."

"Good, good," said Edgar distractedly. "What about everyone back in Vector?"

"Those who survived? Orchestra and chorus, if they can perform, and the rest are scattered about the world, finding what they can. It isn't much, though. It was one of Arvis's bodyguards who found Barkhurst, and that was our biggest break, after Kohlingen."

"And… Arvis?" whispered Edgar, though the feeling in his stomach already told him the answer.

"Dead. Dead in the escape. We were pursued by Magitek troops, and… Well. Our losses were heavy, but we weren't caught unawares."

Edgar closed his eyes, not in a mood for comfort. "Have you… have you heard from my brother?"

"No. But I haven't heard of his death, either. Of all people, you should know he can keep well hidden at need."

"Yes," said Edgar dully. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Listen to me," said Banon, putting an urgent hand to Edgar's shoulder. "We _will_ find Narshe, and Thamasa, and your castle. And once you're done in Kohlingen, stop by Maranda. It may well exceed your expectations. Edgar, we're here to restore hope, by our song if all else fails – and it won't."

"That's how they are in South Figaro," said Edgar reminiscently. "There's always a need to rebuild something, but it spurs them on. Everyone down to the town drunkard's son makes the most extravagant boasts. You should hear them." He could feel his eyes begin to sting. "South Figaro's alive and well, all right. But the city that hosts that spirit is dying."

"Not if they have anything to say about it. Get some rest; you'll leave for Jidoor tomorrow morning, and you'll need it."

"Thank you, and I'll try to get past that broken arm," muttered Edgar wryly as Banon left the room.

After a long time staring at the antiseptic ceiling, he sank into fitful dreams of blood-red sands and churning waves.

-

_Stay safe. I'm still on my way._

If it weren't for those words, Stenden would have laughed off Nerissa's notion that the man he rescued was none other than Edgar Figaro. But he was even now on his way to Kohlingen, he'd said, and that desert was still to the east. Edgar would have his obligations.

Why did he feel so dispirited that he might have saved his life? Surely Figaro's king was just as opposed to Kefka as any Imperial soldier. And he might not have turned traitor if his castle hadn't been _set on fire._

No. No, he'd been hiding the girl gifted with magic at that very moment, and some said he'd been in contact with Banon long before. As king, he'd certainly been a better friend to the Empire than his father, but when he turned his kingdom over to his regent, he wreaked more than enough harm to make up for it.

That was another time, he told himself. Another world. None of that mattered now.

But he knew it did.

He didn't have time to worry, though. The show, as the others repeated endlessly, went on, and at a more breakneck pace than ever. Even Maria needed a good refresher on her lines after what had happened on that shore, and if _she _was spending a lot of time with her company's prompter, mere mortals like himself could hardly afford to brood.

On top of that – though it concerned him far less than it did the grizzled opera veterans – after tonight's performance, Artram's company would be _the _regular troupe at the Grand Opera. To him, it meant no more biting back insults to fling at that enabling, idiotic Impresario and a good chance of seeing Jidoor – and the Emperor's portrait – sooner. To many of the rest, it meant active competition and a need to do their absolute best at every moment. Predictably, this attitude spawned a marked decrease in quality at rehearsals, and hadn't even given Calderat, the lead tenor without a serious thought in his head, a reason to care.

The male chorus kept muddying up the lyrics for the Song of Mead, due to the long tradition of changing them for every performance. Calderat kept muddying up those same lyrics for the sheer sport of it. Half the orchestra, meanwhile, neglected to keep a close eye on the conductor, and Stenden fell under that column more often than not.

If only he could be sure it wasn't bloody Edgar Figaro. _The Enchanted Lake_ would play before an audience in a scant three days.

-

Wave after wave of applause echoed from the auditorium. This was more an appreciation of the Impresario than any kind of opinion on his doom-and-gloom ear-candy, but that didn't mean _Argument with the Tide_ wasn't an acclaimed play. Of course it was. And Halson had irked a lot of people who enjoyed that style.

Who happened to be the same people who'd consider their rescue mission nothing but a rash tempting of fate.

By _fate_, they meant _Kefka._

Edgar's life was definitely worth it, for now, but if it came back to bite the Returners, Halson knew the blame would rightly fall on his shoulders. And he might have Banon's ear, but out of all the people who did, he alone had never known battle. He had no right to make the calls he'd made. And he didn't need a chewing-out to know that.

As the doors burst open and the air filled with the guests' impressions and mindless gossip, Halson was at least grateful for what came with that chewing-out. His sister and Demeter were conferring with Dela at this moment, and with any luck, the talks would beat a successful path to Maranda. To that extent, he'd been useful.

Once the guests had filtered out, Impresario called his company together in the lobby.

"That final performance," he declared, "was a splendid job on all fronts. You have proven your excellence again and again; and now, you will _truly_ shine, without being weighed down by flashy showpieces. The Maranda Theatre, as I've often said, is a venue for pure talent. If you haven't already, do pack your bags. We leave by morning."

"I won't," said Maria in ringing tones.

Deafening silence.

"You – what do you mean, you won't?"

"It means just what it sounds like." She advanced forward. "I've put up with all kinds of windbaggery from you, I've coped with everything from _The Dream Oath, Part Two_ to pulling off my latest character development believably, and for two reasons. The first was that you write fine music. You still have that. The second was a high-profile place at the Grand Opera, and I don't _care _how shallow that is by your standards, I love life in these walls."

As the Impresario showed every sign of interrupting, Maria was rapidly shifting gears from rehearsed to shrill to keep the words moving. Danfry was watching from the door to the stockroom, with something resembling horror.

"If I can't have that, I'd much rather make do with inferior composers than put up with your pomposity, your pretentiousness, your utter disregard for humanity if it doesn't affect your performances. I've had it, you ass, and I'll stay to become Artram's lead soprano, because you, sir, are utterly unworthy."

"So," said Impresario sadly. "In the end, you're nothing more than a pretty showpiece yourself. So be it. There are a good many talented chorus members who can take your place, and you can go on performing for the masses. See if I care."

There were a great many affirmations of "_We're_ with you, Impresario," including from that extra, Ail, who'd struck out so boldly short days ago. Halson supposed his taste of independence had turned out too bitter.

Danfry unstuck his mouth. "Er, Maria… I don't think you have quite the temperament for a major role in this troupe."

"I'd let Artram decide that, if I were you!" flared Maria. "And if you're correct, well, then, I'll wait around for some temporary director to know talent when he sees it, it's not as though I can't live off my savings until then. You, Danfry, with the things you say behind my back, are barely better than Impresario, but unlike him, you will never be my boss, so be _silent!_"

"Farewell, Maria," said Impresario, his hand in melodramatic place on his forehead, as he swept up the stairs to pack his things.


	7. Focus

**Chapter Seven: Focus**

"Congratulations, Danfry," said Dela late that morning, emerging from the chocobo stables. "You'll have fine Jidooran tea for your water by the next shipment, though by the sample Nenna gave me, I don't know how you ever got used to the taste."

"Dela, there's been a – fine, go on. Are we buying anything from Maranda?"

"Believe it if you will, they have thriving fishing docks on their northern shore. We'll get a bit of meat in our diet soon enough, and with any luck find a trustworthy merchant."

"As we're importing strictly from Zozo at the moment, that shouldn't be a concern," said Danfry, knowing perfectly well what Dela meant. The stable-master knew nothing about their doings, and given his tendency to gossip with the patrons, it was to stay that way. "At any rate, are you ready for the bad news?"

"Go on."

"Maria quit Impresario's troupe last night – and she's been hired in ours."

Dela's hand slipped from her shoulder-strap. "Er – Artram agreed to that?"

"She's signed on as the lead alto, you see."

"What a master-stroke," said Dela, pinching her forehead. "If Maria the lead soprano's fits of spleen were a storm, we can expect a tempest from Maria in an arbitrarily lesser range."

"Let's not forget her way of listening at doors," said Danfry, and started to walk the barren ground to the opera.

"She listens," said Dela, following Danfry's lead, "but I've never known her to talk."

"Maria told a whole throng of people that I gossiped about her last night," snapped Danfry, "and it's nothing short of a miracle that she's only heard gossip."

"Everyone down to the chocobos knows your opinion of Maria," Dela replied, halting at the foot of the outer stair. "If this is indeed the first time she's mentioned it, she's kept it hidden for an age."

"Then you're saying we don't know what she knows, and it might come out in a rage."

"If 'Artram' came up when she resigned, I wouldn't fret."

Danfry racked his brains. Now that she mentioned it, Danfry could dimly remember a reference to "Artram's troupe," but he wasn't entirely…

"I thought as much," said Dela, smiling slightly. "As for me, my concern would be far less with Maria than with Stenden."

That, after her jab at his prejudices. "I'm the South Figaroan, Dela; I'm the one with the license to bear a grudge, and –"

Dela straightened.

" – and…" Danfry sighed. "He's not the Empire, Dela. You saw him in the atrium; he's a good man."

"An ignorant man," said Dela coldly. "And King Edgar owes his life to that ignorance."

-

The dress rehearsal's performances went off better than in the last three – the orchestra didn't slide out of sync once, and nobody needed a prod from Danfry to remember their lines – but there was a strained quality to it. And the performances were one thing, but otherwise, the night-sky backdrop came untethered and fell spectacularly sideways into the floor just before the Aria of the Falls.

For some reason, the stagehands took this as a good omen for opening night. These theatre types were a deep mystery at times. At least Stenden's own performance was decent this afternoon, if it lacked a certain cadence.

"Performances, you know," Lynn told him in the atrium. "Unpredictable and hard to judge, so a good framework has its appeal, even for me, and I don't usually believe in fate."

"I don't think fastening a hook properly is unpredictable or hard to judge, though."

Lynn scratched her nose. "Well, it sort of… rubs off on people. Give it some time; you'll start blaming your fumbles on who was first to take a seat, or what someone said to you the day of the performance, or…" She shrugged. "It's an unhealthy thing, I think. But appealing."

Danfry walked over. "How are you, Stenden?"

"I'm prepared for opening night, more or less."

"You'll be a lot more prepared when the time comes, I'm sure. You're that kind of build."

"Er – thank you. Do you, ah, did you hear Nerissa's latest?"

Danfry started. "No – no, what is it?"

Stenden kept his tone determinedly light. "She says that man in the shipwreck was actually the king of Figaro. I mean, I don't believe it, but it's an interesting thought."

Danfry pursed his lips and looked lost in thought for a moment.

"He didn't so much as speak to me," said Lynn, "and you know Edgar's reputation."

Stenden nodded, feeling somewhat relieved. He _hadn't_ shown any particular interest in the women, had he?

"Anyway, Stenden," said Danfry, "you've been assigned to promotional duty in Maranda, and Hoven needs to give you your materials. He's waiting just outside the post-house."

Stenden wished he'd mentioned Maranda before promotional duty. "The post-house would be around the left side?"

"That's the one."

"How soon is my next trip to Jidoor?"

"I'm afraid we don't plan that far in advance. It's the nature of the business. For instance, as far as time is concerned, Maria is suited better than anyone to visit Maranda when we begin showing, but she says – probably rightly – that it would be a bit awkward just after Impresario has settled in. Though I don't think it wise to defer to her so soon," Danfry added.

"Ah," said Stenden, downcast. "I'll go see Hoven, then."

-

Stenden felt rather foolish standing outside the weather-beaten armory on the broken street, passing out flyers mutely in a ridiculously sleek black boater. Along with the dapper orchestra uniform, it did mask him to anyone who might have gone to the opera that night – more a concern here in Maranda than in Jidoor, where he doubted anyone looked twice at him while he lived there – but if he'd seen himself in a mirror, he knew he would have laughed. When he ran out of flyers, they would probably laugh harder at the fish market, but as Hoven had said, you can't live on beans and mushrooms forever.

"Who's Impresario's new soprano?" The pinched-looking woman was maybe the fifth to ask that.

"I am not part of Impresario's company," said Stenden dully. "I couldn't tell you. Ask at the Maranda Theatre."

"Is Maria your new soprano, then?"

"Alto," said Stenden for at least the eighth time. "We needed one. She has the range for it. No, she will not be performing in Enchanted Lake," he added before the woman could ask.

"Let me know when she does perform," she said, giving back the flyer.

"There going to be dogbaits in the Theatre soon?" asked a sagging man with an off look to his eyes.

"Er – I don't think so," said Stenden, perturbed.

"Figures." He stumped off.

"Lola, do you remember seeing _Enchanted Lake_ when we were fourteen?" said a pretty young woman, nudging another. "We really ought to see it again, see if it's as good as we remember it…"

"It says it shows just after sundown," said the other in a flat voice. "That's my time for reading."

"Oh, Lola… Well, maybe you could see the opera, _then_ read that book? I mean, if you _must _keep reading the same –"

"Yes, Aishya," said Lola, sounding on the verge of tears. "I must."

"Could you see the opera, too?" said Aishya quietly.

Lola looked down for a moment. "Yes – yes, I could do that. But I'll never stop reading. Or writing. I know he'll come back to me."

But Stenden heard no such determination in her voice. Stenden watched them turn their backs and head down the scarred stair, and hoped Lola was watching her own back. She was easy prey for the Cult's insinuations.

A rough-looking young man walked by, a bucket in his left arm and a fishing pole over his right shoulder. With a shock of recognition –

"Excuse me – do I know you?"

The man halted and peered at his face.

"You were… Stenden?"

"Carrick." Stenden shook his head in wonder. "What are you doing here?"

"Had a girl in Maranda, remember?" Carrick grinned. "Thought I was lying?"

"Plenty of us lied, it was reasonable enough. Could I drop in for a bit? Catch up on things? Maybe give me your rate for fish while you're at it, I'm supposed to look into that while I'm here."

"'Course you can," said Carrick incredulously, starting to walk and motioning for Stenden to follow. "First on the list is who stuffed you into that getup."

The houses in the south of town were modest indeed, cracks sealed with clay and hastily-bolted boards. But even so, they were better-maintained than the businesses. A few gardens still scraped by in front of the houses; others were reduced to dry, cracked earth.

Carrick laid down his bucket at the door and unlocked it with a copper key from his pocket. "Liza, I'm home," he called.

Liza would have been fairly attractive, but the weary, jaded look to her eyes reminded him of Lara back in Jidoor.

"Who's he?"

"He's Stenden. One of the Figaro crowd. Stenden, this is my wife."

"You meant it," said Stenden in awe, stepping into the sparse wooden house and shutting the door firmly behind him. "How long have you been married?"

"All of two months," said Liza. Her amused smile improved her aspect considerably, though it was hard to believe she was so newly wed. "Seems the fashion these days. So… you're South Figaro, then? I thought they didn't get on well with greensuits."

Stenden realized that for the first time since the fall, he could speak freely. It was an incredible release. "They didn't. I'm a bottom-rung brownsuit, and I'm sure I got more abuse from them than Carrick would if he hadn't been discharged. We were expected to show some restraint."

Carrick looked at him strangely. "Where did you hear I was discharged?"

"We were bandying it about for weeks, did you think we'd pass up that kind of gossip? Running starkers along the north wall…"

"I wasn't discharged, I was shuttled off to guard the ghosts."

Stenden felt a jolt in his gut. "It couldn't have been more than a _week_ after…" He whistled low. "Tough break."

"Not really," said Carrick, passing Liza the bucket. "With the number of greensuits they sent to Narshe while they were holding me in Adriccan's mansion…"

Stenden shuddered and nodded. "Either way, though. Either way it comes back to... you know. Kefka."

"They said a sentry was still alive before I showed up," Carrick said, his eyes closed and his cheeks rigid. "Maybe fourteen years old, and he was slumped against the parapets, blind, grasping, muttering… He wouldn't drink. And… and sometimes I think a few lived after Vector, trapped –"

"Stop." Stenden was shaking uncontrollably. "That's… that's not why I came here. I only wanted to ask you… if there's any way you could travel to Jidoor, and – and if you know about someone called Bagian the Mountaineer."

"Jidoor, he says," grumbled Liza, who was cleaning the fish. "If there were any way we could travel to Jidoor, you think we'd be here living off cod and onions?"

"What _are_ you doing trussed up like that?" said Carrick with false exuberance, having opened his eyes.

Stenden steadied himself. "I work at the opera. Everyone who works there visits Jidoor from time to time." He held out his few remaining flyers. "Promotional duty."

"_Opera?_" said Carrick in disbelief. "Brownsuits singing three hours on end. Incredible."

"Orchestra, actually," said Stenden, thinking it best not to mention the Maranda Theatre. "Maybe a job backstage would suit you; the folks they have now bollixed up it but good at the dress rehearsal."

"What do they pay?" said Liza.

"No idea."

"The other question was, er… Bagian the Mountaineer?" said Carrick. "Yeah, I've heard of him, lived north of Tzen, and he could scale any cliff on the continent. Thought it would help him seek out the truth in legends… the few that weren't completely lying, at any rate." He snorted. "Where are you going with this, anyway?"

"There's this… this painter in Jidoor. You'll understand if you go there, so please remember that job. I'm as lost as you about this Bagian, though. Sounds like a scholar, for one thing… why didn't he try the Albrook University?"

Carrick shook his head pityingly. "No one at the Albrook University was too enthusiastic about their work, that's why. They weren't wild for the idea of studying for the Empire. Either Bagian _was _enthusiastic, or he was completely useless. I'm betting on the latter."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Stenden, smiling. "I'll have to leave now – I have a show to promote and a premiere to play for – but I'm glad you let me in. It's so nice to see a familiar face. Oh – what _is _your rate for fish?"

"We don't catch enough of it to sell," said Liza. "Let us know what the rates are for that opera job, won't you?"

"I will," said Stenden, and was gone.

-

There was a focus that came with opening night. It cast off listlessness like a cloak, and quieted the most gnawing worries. There was only the score, and the conductor, and a feeling of capability and certainty as his fingers touched along the darkwood flute, bringing the finale to its apex, and a breath while the brass carried on, and a clear note in the last chords… and it was done. Applause showered down, and Stenden knew it was earnest.

That focus came with opening night, and it came with knowing he was not alone.

----------------------------

_Author's Note: Thanks to anonymous reviewer Andrews, I have changed the name of Celes's opera throughout my fic in accordance with canon. I have also learned that the opera is available on CD, complete with real vocals. Sweet._


	8. Shifts

**Chapter Eight: Shifts  
**

"Dela has placed you in charge of the caravan," said Banon the day the new shipments came from Zozo. "Orlock will be filling the desk position in your stead. He was not glad to hear it, but we'll have to assume he'll get over it in time. Your fish merchant is Pymme, an old woman who lives somewhat east of town. Stenden didn't know the name, but I do: she was once head cook to the court of Tzen. I don't imagine she'll accept what you tell her so readily, but it might smooth the way to request the weakest wine she has – that was the password for Figaro's emissaries, when the Empire's functionaries in the palace began to outnumber the queen's own. Above all, Halson, remember discretion."

Halson's head spun with the surrealism of it all. Espers and the affairs of rulers murdered a decade before, mingling with his own sister and ordinary opera business… He nodded. "I won't let you down."

-

"_Calderat!_" snapped Maria. "If you can't stick to the script, I'll stick it to you!"

"Anything you say, Mother," said Calderat, scratching his neck. Maria's casting was a bottomless source of amusement, as the indignity of it never failed to put her teeth on edge.

"Let's start again, from 'coarse and common'," said Danfry, working hard to keep his own teeth off edge. "That failing, I propose we just… move on."

Hoven found his page, and Maria, not entirely keeping her anger out of her voice, began:

_Coarse and common, Lionel,  
Your mind has surely strayed.  
We've gold enough in store  
To last us decades more;  
Why foul your gloves with trade?_

Calderat replied,

_O, stop this long tirade;  
Suppose someone had wagered  
That charming wig yo –_

"You don't seem to grasp it, Calderat, but _The Soap Merchant _is _already a comedy. _Hoven, what do we have that doesn't involve him?" Until he'd had to deal with Calderat and Maria on the stage at once, Danfry thought he could handle the task of surrogate director. Truly, Banon had patience beyond mortal ken.

"If his range is extensive enough, you could always make him the jailor," said Maria, furiously brushing loose hair off her forehead.

"Oh, my range is extensive enough," said Calderat with a lascivious wink.

"As ballet is off the table for now," said Hoven loudly, "we'll have to wait for Dela to finish with Orlock."

"Finish _what_, I wonder?" said Calderat. Maria's face jerked as though in physical pain.

Dela walked in before Calderat could press Maria any further. Shame; Maria unleashed would have taught him a thing or two.

"Seems we've measured Orlock's experience too short," she said conversationally. "I do hope Halson can fill his shoes."

Danfry smiled. "You've put him in charge of the caravan."

"And when Orlock says he's green to caravan work," said Dela, unsmiling, "I can't argue." Danfry couldn't see Dela's concern, though; Halson was a quick learner.

"How Jidooran of him," said Hoven.

"Hoven," said Danfry, making a mental note to keep the idiom in circulation, "what scene did you have in mind?"

"Why, the Laundresses' Lament, of course. Ah, and about that – get your scores out – the bit about the nobleman's coat has been changed to 'the whole bloody cape's been wrung out of shape'. Capes give a better impression of snobbery, I think."

That would be for the Kohling cellar-keeper who wanted to ship food to South Figaro. Nikeah, by the last letter, was swarming with Fanatics looking for something called the Safety Bit.

"Considering how many capes _you_ own, I bet you'd know," called someone in the orchestra pit.

"A healthy dose of snobbery is essential for success in theatre, m'dear."

Calderat jumped off the stage with an echoing bang. "Well, then! I think we all know the most successful one in the room, eh?"

Maria let out an inarticulate scream of rage and made a charge that was swiftly cut short by two strong-armed members of the ballet corps.

"Shall we, then?" said Danfry mildly.

-

The shaft was easily found, its walls poking just above the sands of the Kohlingen Desert. But Edgar had specifically designed the submerge points to render the castle inaccessible even if the shaft _was_ found, and the design held.

There was something to be said for Narshe's technologies, wasn't there?

"We meant to follow the course of the Lete to the south." Liam tapped the old map on the table in the sputtering candlelight. "The river's course was broken everywhere, as far as it went, and there were a lot of dry points, but you could see the same mountains to the west – then at Elbow Peak –" he set a pin at the northernmost bend in the Sabil – "– we were seeing lower ground. Deep rapids caught us soon after we found water again, and we had to give everything to keep afloat. When it had settled, we were in the ocean, and, well, it looked like the tip of the Dovetail to the north. Maybe twenty feet above the water."

He laid another pin, cutting off the northern Sabil. Edgar swallowed.

"Well, after that… no use going forward, no way to go back the way we came, so we headed west. With any luck, we'd strike desert. It was easy enough going, the current favored us – but the Sundering wasn't over, something must have given out to the southeast…"

"Serpent Trench, maybe," said Edgar, poring over the frustratingly blank map beside that of the old world.

"The first wave capsized us, and when the three of us left managed to set it aright, the second wave pushed us far off-course – to the north, it would have to be – and then we lost track in the storm, before our boat dashed to pieces... I think here," he said, laying a pin just east of the Dragon's Neck on the old world's map. "The shore was in sight. It's a blur from there, but it was old Sarkis who found me – he was on his way north to check on his brother."

"He lived here?" Edgar indicated the point of the Dragon's Mouth bay.

"He still does. You've met him, then? Well, he may be deranged, but by all accounts he's nothing to that hermit across the stream."

"Believe me, I know." Edgar straightened. "Hmm… do you remember a messenger from Figaro? Lanky, sandy-haired, blue bandana?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Ah well," Edgar sighed. "Let's try and map this out. What did you see as you headed west?"

"Water," said Liam, with a helpless shrug.

Edgar drew a vague oval on the new map, its south border keeping a good distance from the Desert Continent, and an X on the eastern Dragon's Neck. "So the owner of this place has two ships?"

"Yeah, but he's gone with the big one to the _opera_," Liam snorted. "He'll be back, though, and by the looks of it, I'll be ready when he is. I couldn't be more grateful that you're here, Your Highness."

"No need to start the formalities now," said Edgar vaguely, tracing a finger along the Serpent Trench. "I've been away too long for that."

-

"Hired," declared Carrick, pounding his fist triumphantly into his hand. "Artram didn't seem keen on it, but I've got to be better than the other blockheads, at any rate. Liza should be happy."

"Good work! I'd have sent you the word sooner, if Hoven would let me. The man's busy enough, he should just trust that we know how to handle a carrier pigeon. Postmaster, composer, works on the script… I can't think he gets into promotional duty, poor man."

"Waiting around for the go-ahead to send a letter… how did you wind up so _precious_, Stenden? It can't have been the neighborhood."

"Er – about that –" Stenden took a quick glance around the set room. "I'm afraid I've committed a great deception. I'm actually from Iron Crest."

"Truly?" said Carrick, with an expression of amused pity.

"The Girders does sound a lot tougher," he mumbled.

"Cor, but that's the best one in a while," said Carrick, shaking with mirth. "The _Girders…_ to _improve your credentials… _Stenden, mate, just send the letter next time."

"Somehow," said Stenden, laughing helplessly, "thoughts like that just have to have led to the North Wall incident."

"Nah, that's not it… whew… it's a long story…"

"Couldn't be any worse than the Girders thing, though, right?"

"Nah, I don't think it could," said Carrick, flashing a grin.

Casually standing around, having an honest laugh about old times. Had he ever expected to do such a thing again? "Glad you accepted the offer, Carrick."

"Same here, same here. Well, anyway," he said, turning towards the door, "I'm off to tell Liza."


	9. The Shipmaster

**Chapter Nine: The Shipmaster**

Were fish-markets always this putrid? Halson hadn't set foot in one since he lived in Jidoor, well before the fall, but intuitively, the answer was still "yes". The docks out north were much better-maintained, which shouldn't have surprised Halson – fishing was more or less their sole support, and Maranda couldn't afford to let them fall out of repair – but perversely, he _was_ surprised that enough of the Jutland Forest survived to do the job.

If only the proceedings were as quiet as they had been in Jidoor. Every two-bit merchant was shouting shrilly about his wares as though he'd entered a contest judging the deepest shade of shouting-induced red, thoroughly driving out of his head the ballet that had wafted from the Maranda Theatre in town.

Halson walked the market, trying to ignore the assault on his senses to take a good look at their signs – they _had_ signs, for pity's sake, and they were more intelligible than the sellers; why wouldn't they sit back and let the signs do the work? – and at the people behind the counter. Men at an age to be merchants themselves, he ignored. The women, too – none of them looked as though you could fairly describe them as old. Sellers his age or younger, though, were likely to be assistants and worth a second look.

One of the contenders, a spindly girl two shops down, was yelling "Only the fastest, only the finest!" at a volume that Halson was surprised her diaphragm could manage. Paying the other two shops cursory glances, he walked over. The sign above her read _PYMME & HANDS. _Well, that was easier than he'd let himself think it would be.

"Why the fastest?" he asked when she stopped to take a breath.

She dropped the yammer at once, her eyes drinking in Halson's opera clothing. "Yeah, I know they say muscle isn't the best for taste, but fish around these parts, they've been getting sluggish, and they don't taste near as good when they are. No sir, Mistress Pymme'll have none of it. That –" she gestured at a long hanging-string behind her – "– and we cure our dried fish like a dream, finest in Maranda. So how 'bout it, sir? How many would you like?"

"Actually, I'm with the opera caravan, and I'd like a bigger order than this, so I'd better take it up with your mistress."

The girl looked momentarily lost for words. Then she eagerly snatched up a semaphore flag from the counter and ran to the docks.

Pymme came with the seller and two men just younger than Halson. She was a powerfully-built woman, though her manner was weary. "You're the opera man, then? What's your order?"

"At least four crates dried," he said. "Enough to supply us for two weeks. And maybe a bottle of your weakest wine, I like mine sweet but sober."

She paled, her eyes widening. "Who are you?"

"I'm Halson, and I'm with the caravan. You wouldn't have heard of me, but maybe we could talk price at your smokehouse?"

"Yes, we could," she said gravely.

"She doesn't sell wine, though," said one of her fishermen, amused. "Hope you don't mind."

"What a sales pitch it must've been," said the other fisherman to the girl. "Wish I'd been there to pick up tips."

"Today's job isn't over," said Pymme. "Back to work, and I'll deal with the gentleman."

-

"What right have they to put me here, I ask you?" grumbled Orlock to the next man in the queue.

"Kindly fill out my seat and have done with it," he said coldly.

Orlock obliged him, with a sullen expression, and took up his complaints with the woman in front of Danfry.

"I know the Unity better than anyone, and they confine me to selling seats in favor of some dewy-eyed idiot. For what? Tea prices? It's an outrage, wouldn't you agree, madam?"

"Pardon me – what is it you know?"

"The Unity, I said, the Unity. Unless you call this the Southwest or something? Then you're almost as bad as them, no imagination. I can't say what the operas are like, though, as they won't even let me watch, so don't hold me to that. What section would you like?"

"Center-left, I think," she said politely, reaching for her moneybag.

"But at any rate – Dragon – Serpent – Rose – Unity – whatever is still in the blank spaces – I haven't found a good name for the southern continent, though. Enjoy the show."

Danfry stepped forward, guessing Orlock had already considered and rejected "Tower Continent".

"Oh wonderful, our editor-in-chief up for a free ride. Tell Dela she's to put me back on the caravans this instant, before your tea merchant's brother gets lost on the way to Zozo."

Excellent. If the gossip mill assumed nepotism, there was no need to delve any deeper.

"And you know perfectly well you can sit anywhere you like, no need to show off about it."

"Only trying to maintain order," said Danfry, and slipped through the left doors.

-

The smokehouse was a small shed beside Pymme's house, enclosed by a link fence so wide that it must have been a farm. Inside, smoke wafted to the fishmeat, strung to iron bars, from glowing coals in a makeshift pit. A youngish woman attended, her smock covered in ash.

"Fire is too uneven," said Pymme. "Dries most of it, but in its haste it cooks parts before they're ready, and it's quick to spoil then. It's the embers that serve our purposes."

Halson nodded softly.

"We don't have four crates," she added baldly. " What do you have to do with Tzen?"

"Who's that tending the fish?" said Halson warily, realizing a split second too late that he'd just confirmed it was shady business.

"My little daughter of the sculleries. Anything you can say to me, you can say to Cress."

Halson took a deep breath. "It's not exactly about Tzen, ma'am, and I will need crates the next time I'm here. I'm with the Returners."

"The Returners survive, then," she whispered.

"General Celes was with the Returners, or so I'm told," said Cress bitterly.

"Yes, and when she was, she cut to the heart of Vector itself," said Pymme. "And when she wasn't, well, Gestahl's Recovery Edicts burned us more than her torch, I say."

"You always do," said Cress. "Either way, it'd be better to grow a few vegetables."

"Well, in a sense," said Halson, "that's the plan."

-

Lynn had done the miswrung cape marvelously; just enough like their guest's semaphore flag to be recognizable to him, and the cape was brought out again on the washing-line at the existing line "The sleeve has a spot; 'least it's not mouldy rot". Danfry had felt the need to drop a suggestion as well as a warning, and the enclave on the south of the Desert Continent – the Rose Continent, as Orlock would have it – seemed like the best bet.

The orchestra was well up to its usual standards so far, but the scene-changers were as slow on the uptake as ever, despite the new man Stenden had brought in. That was all right as far as Danfry was concerned; two Imperials were too many for comfort.

They were drawing to the close of Act One now, where Lionel's mother dissuades him from further courting Priscilla with reasoning Danfry would call the height of discordant fashion, though _The Soap Merchant_ was over a hundred years old and about Tzen, not Jidoor.

Calderat, who had, as usual, found his top form just in time for the actual performances, began:

_Alas, alack,  
How shall I win my sweetheart back?  
Oh woe, poor me,  
It's brought me to my knees._

He was, of course, casually discussing the matter over drinks.

Maria answered,

_O, if I knew her house and name, I'd make a better guess;  
Whyever could it hurt, dear?  
A harmless bit of dirt, dear?  
But neither will it hurt if I essay it nonetheless:  
She's nothing but a liar,  
That's how it all transpires.  
When you see as much as I have, son, you'll know no good's in anyone;  
I know I can attest._

Here she gave Calderat a pointed look, then – not-so-subtly, given the staging – stamped hard on his foot. He'd actually _fallen asleep_. But just as he was stirring awake, a voice came down from above the stage.

_Ah me, sad day,  
The worry's turned her hair quite grey.  
But have no fear,  
Maria, I am here!_

As the orchestra came to a screeching halt, a brown blur flew from the catwalk to the stage floor, and the next moment, a bleached-looking man stood before Maria, shaking back his long white mane and wearing a rakish grin.

Maria, looking shellshocked but awed, rose to her feet.

------------------------------------------------

_Author's Note: The opera fragment here is based off the WoR Jidoor theme. It just cried out to be in a light opera._

_Also, happy New Year; pick Julian or F.A. as pleases you.  
_


	10. Apologies from the Author

Well, I was midway through Chapter Ten, and though it needed a heck of a lot of refining, I was reasonably proud with it.

Then the GBA version came in the mail.

The line where Impresario says he'll lose his job single-handedly Jossed this story, and even aside from that, that phenomenal retranslation, or maybe just playing the game for the first time in months, made my story seem hopelessly inadequate. And I was growing discontent in my choice to adhere to the It's A Small World After All axiom for quite some time. Then I reread from the beginning, and I realized I'd somehow strayed from the original intent, particularly when it comes to Stenden's character and Jidooran culture. I realized the cities, Maranda excepted, were more or less as the main characters had found them, necessarily making the story every bit as futile as _Argument with the Tide._ And reading all those secret conversations and, in Chapter Ten, elaborating on the secrecy procedures of the Returners' mail network, I realized the entire premise made no bloody sense – why would any Returner sympathizer need to visit the opera to learn what to do?

Given the above, I can't continue Song of Hope with any illusions of decency.

There are plenty of good ideas in here, though - Demeter, Albrook University, the Returners' escape from Vector, my history of Tzen - and I will scavenge them without mercy. There's a Setzer bunny that's been niggling at my brain practically since I first finished the game, but no promises – I haven't yet worked out how to make it surprising. Setzer/Maria took a lot of honing as I worked on Chapter Ten – romance is not my forte – but in the writing, I've grown quite attached to the pairing, and there's a one-shot in it.

I also have another Banon-in-the-World-of-Ruin idea in the making, but this time, I'll make sure it's complete before I post it. I don't seem to mix well with WIPs.

I apologize to those of you who had high expectations for this story, but Song of Hope, as it stands, cannot possibly live up to those expectations.

Buckbeak's Revenge


End file.
